


keeping my hands in resign

by bookhobbit



Category: Beowulf: Return To The Shieldlands (TV)
Genre: Other, Pre-Canon, Queerplatonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 03:28:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6406822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookhobbit/pseuds/bookhobbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rheda and Varr at the beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	keeping my hands in resign

**Author's Note:**

> I've technically been working on this since I started watching the show. Thanks, Moll, for making me ship this in advance, and also as usual for encouraging me and helping me. Also thanks to im-significant on tumblr.

For the first three years that Varr is with them, Rheda does not offer him the cup.

He eats at her table and drinks her mead, and she does not begrudge it - no more than she begrudges any of the Huskarla their meat and mead. All the same, he is an outsider and he is there at Hrothgar's behest, not her own.

The secret, scarce-spoken but true all the same, is that while men may congratulate themselves on accumulating wealth enough to build their golden halls, it is women that have the running of them. Rheda could ruin Hrothgar; it's fortunate for him that she loves him well enough that she would never think of it. In any case, welcome is hers to give or to withhold, and she is not yet easy about Varr, so she withholds it.

Wisely, he doesn't mention it. In fact he doesn't mention very much at all; he is something just off shy, a young man and furtive in his uncertainty. He speaks mostly when spoken to, offering his opinion only when he has something weighty to say. The furtiveness will fade later, replaced by quiet confidence as his responsibilities grow; that stillness, though, will remain.

But Rheda does not know this yet; she only knows that this young man she doesn't quite trust, with eyes that only rarely meet hers, dresses in yellow, a clear and obvious sign that he does not belong.

She doesn't know why, so she asks him once, looking him straight in the eye and daring him to meet her gaze. Briefly, he does; then he looks down at his hands. She can't tell if it's deference or defiance. It will take a long time before she learns to read him.

"You still wear Varni colours," she says.

"Does it displease you that I do so?"

She shrugs. "I should think you would want to fit in."

He regards her for a moment. "But I will not, no matter what I wear. My customs are still strange to you, and yours to me."

"So it's a signal? Will you stop when you feel you belong?"

"I don't know," he says. "I suppose I'll find out when I do."

She sees little more of him after that. He advises Hrothgar occasionally, she notices, most often on matters of politics rather than war. Interesting, but not enough that she wants to get any closer.

And that is where it stays until the night after Eadric, her steward's, wake. His death hadn't been entirely unexpected and in truth he'd been so ill for such a long time that she'd been more or less running the household herself, but… Well, it had seemed disloyal to dismiss him from his duties.

But now he is gone, and she hopes he will find peace. She hadn't been precisely close to him, but she'll think of him all the same.

"We'll need a new stewart, then," says Hrothgar that night just before they retire.

"Yes, we do." She'd resented idea of one at first - could she not manage well enough on her own? - but for a house the size of Hrothgar's she needs an assistant, she's learned. Eadric's absence had taught her that even more. "Have you got a suggestion?"

"What about young Varr?"

She raises her eyebrows. "Varr? Why?"

"He has a talent for administration, I think you'll find. And a head for numbers, which will be useful. He's a fast learner."

Rheda crosses her arms. "I don't know him and I'm not sure of him, Hrothgar."

"A trial period, then. Make it a temporary appointment while you find a new one, if it makes you feel better." Hrothgar shrugs. "You know I trust your judgement, but you should trust mine as well."

"Oh, all right." Rheda sighs. "Send him along tomorrow and I'll try him out. I'm blaming you if this goes wrong."

Hrothgar laughs. "I'm sure you will," he says.

Varr takes the news the way he seems to take everything, with a moment to think and then a small nod of acquiescence. "I am honoured by your confidence in me," he says.

"It was Hrothgar's idea," says Rheda.

"In that case I am honoured by his. I hope to serve you well, even if only for a short period."

"I hope you will too."

He reports for work the next day, showing up in her room precisely when she's up and about her business and Hrothgar has left.

"Did you wait outside for me to need you?" she asks, slightly more cuttingly than she means.

He gives her an affronted look. "I wouldn't do that. It would be an invasion of privacy."

"You knew, though."

"I know what time Hrothgar usually needs me. I thought you would be slightly before that."

Rheda nods, impressed despite herself. "All right. Can you read?"

Varr blinks. "A little. Not the same thing you write, I think."

"You'll be of more use to me if you know our letters. Our first task will be teaching you; we'll spend a little time every day on that till you're comfortable with them." Rheda considers him. "How long do you think that will take?"

Varr shrugs. "A week? I have some familiarity with others. If you give me something to practice on, possibly less."

Rheda nods. "If you've proven yourself competent then, we'll discuss making you permanent."

He dips his head in acknowledgement. "What would you have me do now?"

"I suppose I had better give you the lecture."

The lecture, as Rheda thinks of it, is given to everyone in the house, modified on status and tasks. The steward version is terribly long, because stewardship is such an all-encompassing role, but Varr listens patiently and attentively, asking questions occasionally. He is almost entirely still save for the quiet intent fidgeting of his hands.

After that they move on to lessons.

"You know the theory already," she says.

"Yes."

"Then you can study the forms and the sounds?"

"If you provide me with texts. If you like, I'll do it on my own time, so that my duties won't be interrupted."

"You don't need to do that."

Varr meets her eyes, an occurrence still rare enough that it startles her. "I want to prove myself."

And he does; he learns the runes well enough to read them in exactly four days. It's impressive even considering that he knew a form of them already. Without giving her any cause to complain about his work, too.

"It's not soon enough to evaluate your performance," she tells him, "So stay on and we'll see."

He takes this the way he has everything else: with a quiet nod and no sign of offense. And goes back to work.

The thing about Varr, the truly exasperating thing about Varr, is that he's competent. Rheda decides this three weeks later, when she can't avoid making him permanent steward any longer. He's the best for the job, and that's the point.

It's not actually precisely exasperating except insofar as she knows Hrothgar will smirk in his particularly knowing way if she admits it. It's that she's uneasy.

Has she judged him unfairly because he's an outsider? She's never thought of herself as that sort, narrow-minded and unable to see the good in anyone not from their own village.

It makes it worse that he's never protested, as if this is precisely the treatment he expects from everyone here in Herot. They should be better than that. But this late in the day, what can she do to make him feel welcome?

Well. There is one thing. It's out of the ordinary way of things, but never mind.

That night in the hall, when everyone is seated, she takes a cup of wine over to Varr.

"Drink and be welcome," she says.

Most of the hall is giving her startled looks. Varr has neither recently entered Herot nor recently returned from a visit, and that's when the custom is supposed to apply, but she has something she wants to show him.

And Varr - Varr meets her eyes and smiles his faint flicker of a smile, as if he understands. He takes the cup and bows his head.

"I thank you," he says.

"It seems you and your new steward are getting along better," says Hrothgar when she returns. His tone speaks of a certain smugness.

"We are beginning to," she says, shrugging a shoulder carelessly.

Hrothgar doesn't say _I told you so._

After that, Varr is solidly part of Herot. The other servants tend to be a bit frightened of him, but his work is quick, well-done, and impressive. She defends him from impertinent questions - although she'll admit she's asked a few herself now - and from the glares of those who haven't yet come to trust him.

The thing about Rheda is that once you are hers, you are _hers_. She will not let any harm him, nor question his presence.

Now that he's steward, Varr stays behind when Hrothgar rides to battle. Hrothgar tells her in private that approves of this; Rheda isn't a fighter, not really, but Varr still has training, and should something happen it's better for him to be there.

For her own part, Rheda feels safe with him. Not just as a defender - she's confident in her own abilities if it comes to something desperate - but as a man. He makes himself small for her, keeps his hands down and his body language nonthreatening, in a way she has almost never seen. It's comfortable.

That's not to say it's all quite regular. There's something in Varr, she thinks, that goes beyond simple gratitude for her trust and her protection. Sometimes he looks at her oddly, with a light in his eyes that's a bit more than what it should be. It's never enough to make her uncomfortable, never something he looks like he'll act on, but...

For a while, she thinks maybe he's in love with her, which has happened once or twice before. But there's nothing of that in his gaze or the way that he moves around her, and she can tell how it looks when there is.

Later, she decides it's loyalty. But she doesn't find out quite how deeply in runs until years later, after the most recent of the Wulfing attacks.

Hrothgar is talking about striking back, which she thinks is unwise.

"I don't think it's a good idea," she says.

"You know we can't let their challenge go unanswered."

"Can't we? We have enough gold."

"You know it's not about gold, Rheda." Hrothgar sighs and rests his hand against his sword for a moment, a habit which has always vaguely annoyed her when they are talking about strategy. "We have a reputation, and if we let one group of them attack, the others will too. We need a show of strength."

Rheda sighs. He's right, but this still isn't a good idea. "Do you have to go?"

"Yes. I do. I'm their thane."

Rheda sits down on their bed and starts taking her hair out. She's tired, and she'll deal with this in the morning. Because he's right, she knows he is, about all of it. But Slean could lead the Huskarla, or Gil could. It's his pride, and that's the hardest to fight.

Hrothgar sits down beside her and helps her with the elaborate braids on the crown of her head, which are difficult for her to reach. "I know you're worried..."

"You're not as young as you were, you know," she says, which she knows is the wrong thing, but she can't think of anything else.

"I can keep up with my men," says Hrothgar. "You'll see. I'll come back and we'll have a feast and you can offer Varr another cup."

That makes Rheda laugh, a little. "That was a long time ago, Hrothgar. And you know why I did it."

"Mhm." He combs her hair out with his fingers. "And I appreciate it, you know. He's always been a bit of an outsider here. I'm sure that helped."

"He proved himself."

Hrothgar pulls her close to him, and she goes, wrapping her arms around him. Hrothgar's always let her have that, laying with him in her arms rather than the other way around. It makes her feel safe and controlled and powerful, and it makes him feel loved.

She doesn't manage to talk him out of it, not that morning and not over the next week while they prepare. She gives it a final go while she and Varr help him on with his armor.

"Stay," she says, tying on the bracer. "We'll find something else."

"We won't," says Hrothgar to her, very softly. "I'll be fine. You'll see."

Varr, as usual, does not speak. He just goes on fixing the bracer on his side, his hands gentle as they always are with her or Hrothgar. He has a very eloquent silence, but she can't tell who he agrees with this time.

Finally Hrothgar is ready. She steps back and looks at him; beside her, Varr does the same.

"You're as ready as you'll ever be, I suppose," she says, smiling a little at him.

Varr glides silently away as Hrothgar leans down to give her a kiss goodbye. "I'll see you very soon," he says. "I promise."

She hopes that's true.

Varr comes in to see her the next morning, bringing reports about iron trade and raiders on the other side of the Shieldlands and all sorts of things.

He stops halfway through, folds his hands into his sleeves. "You're upset."

"I don't think this attack was a good idea."

"He's been successful before."

"I know, but we agreed on those. This one - you saw."

"You're worried because he isn't taking heed of what you said."

Rheda sighs. "Perhaps it's petty, but yes. He wouldn't listen to me. He knows my advice is sound, but he's stubborn."

Varr, walking past her on his way to straighten something on the other side of the room, brushes his shoulder against hers lightly. It's not quite improper. It could have been a mistake, but that's not the sort of mistake he makes; he keeps well back from people he doesn't want to be near. She thinks for a moment it's some sort of reprimand but as he resumes his journey he says, "A man who asks for counsel and will not take it is a fool."

It was for comfort, she realizes. Rheda knows then that Varr is more her man than Herot's, more hers even than Hrothgar's, and to her surprise it wakes a sort of fierce pride in her. Varr, quick of fingers and of thought, who learned the runes in a few days' time, with his neat precise records and his unfailing thoughtful advice, is _hers_.

Odd how her ambivalence has turned to fondness. Odd how she has come to depend on him. Odd that she should, in fact, be comforted by the faint sympathetic brush of their shoulders together.

She barely has time to process this before the next realization comes; it seems that it's her day for them.

Technically, it's not his job. It's not his job at all. Any definition of steward that anyone would care to offer mentions nothing about hair at all.

All the same.

"I'll do it myself," Rheda says when the maidservant starts to undo her braids that night. "I need some time alone to think."

The girl nods and bows and goes out, and Rheda begins absentmindedly untying the ribbons that hold the braids in place. It's soothing until Varr, in his usual noiseless way, enters the room, pausing at the threshold waiting to be invited. When Hrothgar's here, he gives them their privacy; when he is away, he seems to regard it as her duty to ensure she is both safe and up-to-date. She appreciates that.

"Oh, come in," she says. "I take it this is important?"

Varr nods.

"Well, sit down. I suppose you'll be here a while."

He takes a seat beside her, legs crossed on the floor and back hunched over. He rarely stands straight, she's noticed. He'd look more confident if he did. She glances thoughtfully over at him as she tries to undo her hair.

Much to her annoyance, she can't get it out herself after all; the style is too complicated and she cannot see well enough. She makes a noise of frustration and turns her back to Varr.

"Help me with this while you're talking," she says.

"With your hair?"

"I can't reach the back."

He shrugs, scoots closer to her and picks delicately at one of the braids. It's not a very efficient method, but she supposes she had better not push him. "Now go on," she says, combing out the strands in the front which have already been undone.

"Well, you know that the Wisdeth have had a certain amount of difficulty with their wheat."

"The raids, yes. I thought they'd managed to make up for the thefts."

"For the moment. They think the long-term effects will be deadlier than the short term, because they're not certain if they'll have enough seed, apparently. For that reason, I had thought I had best speak to you about measure we can take to prevent famine." He pauses, a strand of her hair in hand, and she half-turns.

Their eyes meet, and she realizes just how close he is. Somehow the realization doesn't trouble her as much as it should.

"Ah." Rheda pulls the loosened braid over her shoulder. "It's not something I've given much thought to over the past few years, and the last system won't work. We'll have to discuss it in more detail tomorrow. I will think on it tonight."

"Very good." Varr offers a few suggestions, and they discuss details until her hair is all loose over her shoulders, ready to be braided simply and comfortably for bed.

"Thank you," she says, "I appreciate your conscientiousness."

His eyes drop to her loose hair and a faint smile crosses his face. She smiles, too, knowing she's thanking him as much for his help as for his guidance.

She knows, then, that what they have is something not quite normal. It's a quiet little warmth, a spark of - well, something. It's not what she feels for Hrothgar, nor yet what she feels for Slean. It's more like what she associates with childhood friendships: trust and affection and complete, utter ease.

The smile widens and she catches his gaze. Varr blinks slowly at her, and then dips his head.

As he leaves, she wonders where, precisely, this will end up.

She doesn't know, but the prospect of finding out lights her up inside.

Before they have a chance to find out, Hrothgar returns. It's not that this would cause a problem; Rheda is not doing anything improper. It's just the state in which he returns, which is to say, run through with a sword.

Gil brings her the news with a light of sorrow in his eyes, and she doesn't know if that hurts or helps, knowing his men love him too. She almost thinks _loved_  but he's not dead yet and she makes it to his bedside just in time.

"Elvina, will he - " she begins, and Elvina looks up, her hands bloody to the elbows. She shakes her head.

Rheda feels numb all over, like all the blood's been stolen from her. "Go," she says, barely forcing the word out from between her lips. Elvina nods, leaves them.

The passing moments are private; she says all she needs to, and Hrothgar hears her. He names her his successor, and dies with his hand in hers.

Varr is waiting outside, with his usual impeccable sense of timing. He's careful not to speak until she does, until she's demonstrated that she's strong enough not to collapse. It takes her a minute or two.

"Hrothgar is dead," Rheda says finally, her shoulders heavy and slumped.

Varr gives the barest nod. "Does Elvina know?"

"Yes."

Varr says with the softness he reserves only for her, "Is there anything I can do?"

Rheda shakes her head. "Not just now, thank you. I would like to be alone."

Another nod, and then a hesitation. For a moment she thinks he will reach out to touch her, and she doesn't know whether she wants it or doesn't, but it passes and he gives into propriety. Bows his head, leaves without ever once looking her in the eye. That's for privacy, she thinks: he doesn't want to intrude on her grief.

Some part of her wishes, just a little, that he had.

He comes later, when Hrothgar's body is laid out, to help her prepare. She doesn't know how he knows. She never does, really. It's one of the many things that make him special.

For one final time they lace on Hrothgar's bracers, buckle on his breastplate. They work silently side by side, shoulders brushing on accident, and she takes comfort from that again. His nearness, when she feels so very alone.

Later still, when Hrothgar is laid on his bier and she has collapsed onto their bed. Varr is sitting beside her, hands in his lap, entirely still for once.

"I'm to be thane," she says. "His successor."

Varr nods.

"You don't look surprised."

"I'm not. Slean isn't ready, and you are the most natural choice."

She laughs, exhausted and hollow. "I don't feel like it."

And Varr - for once, Varr does exactly what he technically shouldn't. He reaches out to her, rests his hand on her arm for the briefest moment.

"You're ready," he says. "And I will be here."

And that...

That, if nothing else, gives her the strength to go on.

 


End file.
